


Tight Squeeze

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belly Rubs, Bursting out of clothes, Kinky shit folks. I'm back, M/M, Mpreg, Stuffing, belly stuffing, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The clothes Sherlock was wearing wouldn't fit tomorrow. <br/>They hardly fit today, but he was deliberately wearing them one last time because he had a special plan for these trousers, this shirt. <br/>He was planning to eat his way out of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tight Squeeze

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this one in storage for awhile, wondering whether it was okay to post or not, and then I figured hell, if you all don't appreciate it, who will? So here you go! Belly stuffing and mpreg kink!

The clothes Sherlock was wearing wouldn't fit tomorrow. 

They hardly fit today, but he was deliberately wearing them one last time because he had a special plan for these trousers, this shirt. 

He was planning to eat his way _out_ of them. 

Sherlock waddled out into the sitting room, rubbing his belly as the baby rolled inside him. "Ready to go whenever you are, John." 

John closed the lid of his laptop, looked up, did a double-take, and tried to mask his instant arousal. Sherlock was aware how he looked, trousers so tight they made the skin above his hips bulge out - even with the belly band - shirt so small it would have left his skin visible if the navy elastic holding his trousers up hadn't been there to cover it. 

"I said, ready to go, John," Sherlock repeated, and John shook his head and stood up. 

"Right, let's go, then," he replied, and placed a protective hand on Sherlock's lower back as he guided them out the door of the flat. 

* * *

 

Some hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant - not Angelo's, not for this particular meal - just off the Charing Cross tube station found Sherlock clearing his plate of risotto. 

"Good?" John asked, and Sherlock hummed and patted his stomach. 

"Very. Would you poke fun at me if I were to order seconds?" he asked, and John blinked. 

"Erm…no, not particularly, if you're still hungry." 

"Ravenous," Sherlock replied, and flagged down the waiter.

* * *

 

Midway through his second plate of pasta, Sherlock reached down and exaggeratedly slid down his belly band, letting his stomach sag forward just a smidgeon. "Oh, much better. That band is constricting," he murmured, and picked up his fork again. 

John reached down to adjust something, too, and cursed under his breath as Sherlock let out a burp, and then another. "Running out of room," he excused himself, and rubbed his belly and swallowed another mouthful of pasta. 

"You've got to be getting full," John said, somewhat impressed with the amount of food Sherlock was consuming, but Sherlock shook his head. 

"I won't order thirds, but I do still have room," he replied, and John sighed inwardly. 

Oh, fucking hell. 

* * *

 

Sherlock was a little put out when John denied dessert for the both of them, but knew he'd be exacting his revenge soon. 

'Soon' as in 'when he stood up.' 

"Ough," Sherlock grunted as he rose, and groaned again as the food in his stomach shifted. He reached down to adjust his shirt and grinned when he realized he'd stretched it to its fullest limit, and there was now a gap between the hem and the fold of his elastic belly band. 

John, however, wasn't paying attention, and instead was scrubbing a hand through his hair as he looked at the bill. "Was it really necessary to order a second entree, Sherlock? I know your bank account's in fine shape, but this bill is groceries for a week." 

"I don't know, John," Sherlock murmured, rubbing his stomach. "Was it worth it?" 

John's gaze rose and froze on the sliver of skin showing through Sherlock's clothing. "Damn you," he whispered, and slapped several bills on the table before dragging Sherlock out of the restaurant as quickly as the pregnant man could waddle. 

John accosted him in the alley as soon as they were out the door. He pressed his own full stomach up against Sherlock's round belly, and groaned along with Sherlock. "I need to fuck you as soon as possible," he grunted, rubbing the protruding belly. 

"I'm not full yet, John. Take me home and fill me up." 

"Jesus christ." John cursed, pressed a hand on Sherlock's stomach until he grunted, and then ran out to flag down a cab. 

* * *

 

Sherlock made a show of climbing the stairs into the flat, huffing every time he mounted a new stair. John followed him, trying to think of what food was in the cupboards that he could feed to Sherlock. He was distracted by the noises Sherlock was making, and wanted desperately for him to make more of them, louder. 

"Sit on the couch. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be out soon," John told his mate, and ducked into the kitchen so Sherlock could have a seat. 

He piled a tray with food and snacks and drinks, and barely managed to keep from dropping it when he reemerged into the sitting room. Rather than changing into looser clothes, Sherlock had stayed in the same outfit he'd worn to the restaurant. But this time, John could _see_ just how tight the clothes were, the belly band's elastic showing as the fabric stretched, the shirt nearly transparent over the curve of his stomach. "God, how can you want to eat more?" 

"Hungry, John, we're hungry. Feed us," Sherlock said breathily, and John's cock filled heavily in his trousers.

"Fucking eat, then," John growled, and shoved a forkful of reheated rice into Sherlock's mouth. 

The pint of rice was gone almost instantly, and Sherlock demanded more. 

Two peanut butter sandwiches. "More," Sherlock rasped, and grunted when John pushed his hips up on Sherlock's belly. He dismounted, and went to rummage around in the kitchen. "It doesn't have to be cuisine, John, just fill me." 

"Bread," John murmured, and simply grabbed the bag and went back to the couch, where Sherlock was rubbing his tight stomach and moaning. 

When John straddled his lap again, Sherlock grasped his wrists. "Stuff me," he whispered. "When I tell you to stop, keep going. I don't want to be able to move, so full." 

John groaned and rocked his hips forward and down onto Sherlock's belly, harder and harder until the man gave a rewarding noise of arousal and pain. 

John pulled a slice of bread from the bag, balled it up, and tore a piece off, feeding it into Sherlock's mouth faster than the man could chew. Sherlock swallowed the pieces half-chewed, his throat bulging as the mass moved down. 

Six slices went into Sherlock's mouth easily, with no hesitation from the detective. The seventh went down with a bit of difficulty, and the eighth painfully. "Water," Sherlock rasped, and John nodded and dashed to the kitchen, returning with a litre bottle of chilled water. 

"You're going to eat the whole loaf of bread and drink the whole litre of water," John murmured into Sherlock's ear, and the detective groaned and took several quick swallows from the bottle. John settled back into the man's lap and resumed feeding him the bread. 

Bread, water, bread, water, bread, water, over and over until only half of the loaf remained and the water bottle was half empty. Sherlock was writhing on the couch as best his stuffed belly would let him, and small noises of pain slid past his lips with each bite. 

"Stop, please," he whimpered, rubbing his swollen middle with both hands. John rocked his hips forward and Sherlock cried out in pain at the pressure, but John pulled off another chunk of bread and shoved it into Sherlock's mouth. 

With each bite and noise of protest, Sherlock's belly pushed out further, his shirt riding up until it sat, still tight, on the top of his stomach. His belly band had long since given up the fight and had slid down, stretched just over his hips and the lowest part of his belly. 

The mass steadily grew and pushed Sherlock's belly out and out and out, until it was reddened and distended and so, so painful. John rolled another slice of bread and pushed into Sherlock's mouth whole, and the detective grimaced and swallowed it without chewing. His throat bulged and he moaned as peristalsis forced the lump down into his already packed stomach. 

As the detective rocked side to side, holding his sides in agony, John leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Can you do it, Sherlock? Can you finish the bread?"

Sherlock's breath came in shallow gasps, his stomach encroaching on his lungs and making it difficult - near impossible, really - to breathe deeply. He opened his eyes, forehead beaded with sweat, and winced when John prodded his belly sharply. "Yes," he breathed, and John grinned and wadded another piece of bread. 

Three slices left, and less than a quarter bottle of water. Sherlock grunted in pain each time he bit off another chunk, and his hands rubbed weakly at his distended stomach. "No more, no more," he gasped, but John pressed the bottle to his mouth and Sherlock drank slowly, breathing harshly. 

Finally, the last piece of bread slid down his throat and Sherlock chased it with the last of the water and then he was _done._  

His stomach was mounded in front of him, his shirt too tight even as it sat on the top of his belly and his trousers unbelievably painful as they cut into his abdomen. "Get me out of my clothes, John," he breathed, and John pressed two palms against his belly in response, making Sherlock writhe and moan. 

John relented then, and pulled the man's shirt off before grasping his shoulders and gently maneuvered Sherlock to lie flat on the sofa. Sherlock cried out as his stomach stretched, and the muscles seized painfully in protest. John ignored the man's noises of pain and pulled the belly band down, over Sherlock's hips, and off, before focussing on the tight waistline of his trousers.

"Christ, Sherlock, how did you even manage to do these up before we left?" he asked, running his fingers over the rolled fabric, so tight it made Sherlock's belly pout over top of the fabric. He pressed against Sherlock's belly to gather enough fabric and undo the button and zip, and Sherlock sighed in relief when his stomach filled the newly vacated space. 

John eased his trousers down over his hips, then, but left his pants where they were, elastic slung obscenely low under his curved, protruding belly. A red line ran the width of Sherlock's stomach, where the trousers had constricted his skin and the growing mass inside it. 

Unclothed, Sherlock moaned when John ran his hand over his middle, applying light pressure on the solid expanse. Sherlock's belly had grown perfectly round, free of stretch marks, pale and unmarked. 

John marveled at the fullness of it, at the solidity beneath the silky thin skin, at the warmth of the mass, growing warmer as John's hands stimulated it and Sherlock's stomach lethargically started to digest the mass of food he'd consumed. 

"You are a wicked, wicked man," John murmured, thumbing over Sherlock's still-stubbornly-innie navel. The detective shuddered, and his pale pink lips opened and a soft moan slipped through them.

"I was so hoping that damned thing would give up and pop," Sherlock said quietly, and John dipped his pinky into the ring, drawing another moan from his mate. 

"Want to give it a go?" John asked, and Sherlock's eyes met his slowly. He nodded. 

* * *

 

"Milk. Easy to swallow. It will fill you up, get that stubborn belly button to pop." John returned from the kitchen with the mostly-full gallon. He set it on the coffee table and pulled Sherlock to a sitting position, and the pregnant man groaned as his stuffed stomach insisted against the movement. 

"Ready?" John inquired, and Sherlock nodded. 

John's hands rubbed at Sherlock's solid, swollen stomach as the man lifted the gallon to his own lips. He swallowed once, twice, three times, gasping after the third and holding back a cry. "Christ, John, so full. It hurts." John pressed his hands against Sherlock's middle, and after a few seconds relented. 

Sherlock was breathing in shallowly, lungs constricted by his stomach as it swelled and swelled. 

"Come on, Sherlock, pop that navel. You can do it." John massaged gently, rubbing thin skin over the solid distention beneath. 

Sherlock swallowed again, over and over and over. His belly was so hot, so full, so tight, he didn't think he could drink any more. Pain radiated out from his stuffed middle, lethargic gurgles rumbling from the solid mass in his belly. 

"Come on, Sherlock. You're not full yet. You've got more room," John encouraged, still rubbing, still prodding. 

More milk. The gallon was half-empty now, and Sherlock's middle was so packed that he could hardly breathe. "Has it popped yet, John?" he asked breathily, whimpering. 

"Not yet. It's close." John slid his pinky in the small hole again, and Sherlock cried out. 

"Hurts, John! Oh, oh, oh," he moaned, his free hand rubbing his tight belly as he tried to rock back and forth. 

"Just a little more, love. Just a little more and you'll be so full, so round, so perfect. You can do it. Come on." John pushed the plastic container, beaded with water, back towards Sherlock's mouth, and the man took as deep a breath he could and took another drink. 

Each swallow felt more and more impossible. His stomach was massive, mounded, huge. So much food, so much milk. But his navel hadn't popped. "John, I…ohowowow," he moaned, taking shallow breaths and trying not to sob. 

"Just a little more," John repeated.

"Little…more." Sherlock swallowed again. Milk dribbled from the corners of his mouth, and his stomach creaked and groaned as he continued to add to the mass inside. The fingers of his free hand clawed at his tight belly, scratching the thin reddened skin. He panted between drinks, certain he was about to pop. Just a little more…

" _Aaaaaaah! Ohgodjohn,_ there it _went,_ oh god _hurts, John!"_ Sherlock cried out and let the empty container fall to the floor, both hands slapping against his tight, round, oh-so-painfully overfull stomach. John rubbed it as well, prodding maliciously at the mound of flesh and tweaking the now-popped navel. "Ohmygod, oh my god," Sherlock chanted in a low moan, rubbing the expanse of his stretched stomach. 

"Beautiful," John murmured, pressing his hands against the firmness and drawing a cry from Sherlock. "Gorgeous. So round. So full. Beautiful." 

"Done, John. Can't eat any…any more. Done." Tears of relief and pain slid down Sherlock's cheeks. He couldn't move, could hardly breathe. It was perfect. 

"I know, love. You did so well. So, so well."

 


End file.
